


Forgiving Fate

by misbegotten



Category: Lost
Genre: F/M, Pregnant Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It tastes like hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiving Fate

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written after 1x04 "Walkabout" and contains no plot information after that episode.

He's shaking. Claire can see it, even though he's moving away from the fire, back into the darkness of the brush. Charlie seems to think he belongs out there, that he should go through the purgatory of withdrawal alone. He made a joke about being eaten by a monster being preferable to this, but she knows he hides out there so they won't see him suffering, won't have to listen to his whimpering in the night.

The others don't help. She's sure the doctor doesn't mean to snap, to sigh and mask his concern with frustration. She's less certain about Sayid. Disappointed, really, that Sayid can't seem to look past his disgust for the drugs to see Charlie's pain. Only Locke sits with Charlie, for hours on end.

She meets Locke's eyes as she pushes herself up from her chair -- they save 23C for her, because it has the most cushioning left -- and he smiles slightly. She doesn't look at the others.

The sand, shifting and always treacherous given that her center of gravity seems to move every time the baby kicks, gives way to firmer ground as she nears the plant life. She steps into the darkness and pauses, letting black coalesce into recognizable shapes. Trees. Wild swathes of greenery. Charlie.

"Hey," she says softly, but he ducks his chin further into his chest. He's curled on the ground, knees tight, fingers pulling at the edge of his sweatshirt. The sight makes her eyes hurt, like she's got sand in them, and she brushes the back of her hand across her face. She sits down, not gracefully, and waits.

His lips are moving, she realizes. She leans down closer to his mouth, trying to make out the words.

When his eyes fly open, it startles her and she jumps. He's shaking down to his core and she can't decide if the horror in his face is for himself or for her seeing him like this. Before she can say anything, he spins and his back is to her. It happens so quickly, as if something plucks him out of the air and then shoves him back down, that it scares her.

She stares at the curve of his spine and feels like laughing. Or crying. Everything on the island seems to make her feel like that, as if she's balanced on the thin edge of hysterical and hysteria. It's a kind of half life, she thinks as she carefully lays down beside him. Half life in paradise.

She puts her arms around him and though he stiffens, he doesn't push her away. After a moment, he folds her hands beneath his. His skin is clammy, and she wills her warmth into him. Breathes into him.

"Thanks." His voice is scratchy, like he's been swallowing screams. She presses her forehead to his back, into the salt and sweat of the dark fabric.

"What were you saying?" Her voice is muffled, but she thinks he can still hear her. "Before."

He laughs, a shake of the diaphragm and a shudder. "Lyrics," he says. "From our new album."

A piece of himself that he hasn't lost, she thinks, but he snatches away her hope.

"I fucked up the recordings." Charlie pulls her more tightly against him, anchors himself to her. "I was too strung out. I couldn't play. I couldn't sing. I fucked them up, and they kicked me out of the band."

"Shhh," she soothes him, like the baby she'll hold in her arms. How many ways can he break her heart, if she lets him? "It's okay."

She feels him shake his head. "It's not okay. I can't control it." He's shaking again, twitching against her even as she tries to steady him. "I can't control my own fucking body."

She laughs at that. She can't help it. And because she doesn't want him to think she's laughing at him, the truth tumbles out of her. "The baby's not mine, Charlie."

He stills, and she lets her arms fall away from him. She wants to cover her face, but won't.

"What?"

"He's not mine." She breathes deep, drowning in the clear night air. "I'm carrying the baby for someone else. And now he's stuck here too."

She waits for him to say something. Instead, his fingers trace the line of her cheek, chin, move down to rest lightly on her swollen belly. He touches her like she's china.

"Does it..." His voice is shaky, but for the first time in days she hears him reach out. He's been wrapped up in his suffering for too long. "I mean, I've never really known anyone... Did it hurt?"

Desperate eyes pinched with hope. Relentless concern and sideways glances that slide across her like she's nothing. The money she would have done anything for, before. "No," she answers, lying just a little. "It's just, now he's mine, right? And the thing is, that makes me happy. It doesn't seem right, with everything that's happened. But it makes me happy."

This is the price, she'd thought as she read names for the memorial. Bodies burned in the fuselage, and she called the list of the dead to make amends.

He presses his forehead to hers. "Then be happy. It's okay. You don't have to apologize for it."

"Don't you apologize either," she responds fiercely. "Don't apologize for who you were before." She grasps his trembling hand, and raises it to her cheek. "Stop punishing yourself for this."

He shudders, and then with a little sigh relaxes against her. "I will, if you will," he chuckles. His stubble tickles, and she laughs too. And then she kisses him. Lightly at first, but when he opens his mouth she pushes harder. His face is rough with whiskers, his lips are chapped, he's got weeks worth of seawater baths and sun branded into his skin. And he tastes wonderful.

He's breathing heavily, when they part. So is she. For a moment they are frozen, but sound comes back to her gradually, like layers of sensation. The insistent ocean, the whisper of the trees, her heart pounding in her ears.

"Come back to the fire with me?" She threads her fingers through his, but lets him decide whether to go.

"Yeah," he answers. He makes no move to get up, though. His lips meet hers again.

She knows what he tastes like, Claire thinks as the world melts away. He tastes like hope. And -- she is a little surprised to realize -- desire. He's not in good shape. Hell, neither of them is. But his lips press against hers a little too long for simple gratitude. Their fingers tighten together too naturally for platonic friendship. His body molds to hers too perfectly. The stirring of his erection too easily draws a response from her.

Carefully, oh so carefully, she moves her lips from his, brushing his cheek, the line of his jaw. Nibbling, placing delicate kisses back up his cheek to his ear, and he makes a noise in his throat that sounds like a plea.

"Claire?" His voice is husky, a kind of tenor she's never heard from him except when he sings to the guitar. "If you don't want..." His hands are tight on her back, and she can feel the outline of every taped finger. "If you're going to stop, do it now."

She can't help smiling. "Idiot," she answers softly.

And then he's plundering her mouth. Claire moves her fingers up, twisting them into the short strands of his hair, drawing him in. His hands trace the line of her shoulders, the curve of her back, and then they're on their knees, worshipping each other.

She tugs off his sweatshirt, and chuckles when his arms get tangled as he tries to cast away the shirt underneath. He grins at her -- oh that grin, which never fails to brighten her day, and at the moment drives her insane with the promise lurking at its corners. She strips away her dress hesitantly, revealing the pregnant swell of her belly. She's not sure what to expect, but he splays his fingers across her and kisses the taut skin gently. "You're beautiful," he whispers.

Beautiful, maybe. Horny as hell. She nearly whimpers as Charlie bends down to caress her with his tongue, making playful, luxurious loops across her stomach. She fumbles with the hook on her bra; when it finally gives she lets the fabric drop and, taking one of his hands, brings him to her breast. He massages the skin gently, cupping her breast, learning the shape of it, coaxing her nipple to attention. When he finally takes it into his mouth, she barely notices that she's down, that he has eased her to the ground with his free arm. Somehow, some way she has lost the scrap of fabric that passes for her underwear these days. She tangles her legs with his, teasing his cock with the grind of her hip, and he draws in a sharp breath.

Teeth and tongue tracking a line down her flesh, claiming her, marking his exploration of her body, until his warm breath on the inside of her thigh makes her so wet she wants to scream. With what little coherent thought she has left, she tugs on his ear and he looks up, concerned.

"Not that way," she manages. "It might not be good for the baby." She feels stupid, incredibly awkward and embarrassed, but he simply plants a kiss on the tangle of curls at her center and moves back to caress her chest.

"How?" Charlie asks, and she sits up, her fingers fumbling at the button of his jeans. His hands are shaking too, but she knows it's her that's doing it this time, not the drugs. As he flings the pants away, she can't help giggling. "Hope we can find the bloody things again," he says.

He's free now, naked and gleaming in the darkness, and she skims her fingertips down his thighs before taking his cock in her hand. With the first slide across his shaft, he hisses -- all pleasure, no pain. She wets her palm on the already weeping tip of his erection, and slides again more easily. They're the perfect size for each other; as she coaxes him forward, he touches her. When she trembles in his hand, he enters her with one finger, then two. Back and forth and beautiful friction and though she's willing to do this all night she wants him in her.

"Charlie, are you clean?"

He stills for a second, considering the question, and she can see a joke forming in his eyes. But he nods, almost shyly. "Stupid not to get tested." He captures her lips with his and murmurs, "I'm clean."

With a satisfied grin she pushes him back, and now he's the one on the ground, and she's straddling his hips. He bucks against her, can't help it, and she leans over to whisper, "Tell me if I'm too heavy."

"Not possible love," he answers, and then there are no words at all as she carefully sheaths him. She goes slowly, wanting to hear every response, to feel the rush of sensation where they connect. Charlie is patient, and when she finds a comfortable position his hands are at her hips, supporting her.

They move together, a perfect rhythm, and she begins to doubt whether she can stand a moment more, another second of anticipation and then she's trembling as she comes. She gasps a little, frustrated at the speed of her response, but he moves steadily beneath her, drawing out her breath until it becomes a sigh. "Sorry. Being pregnant makes it kinda quick."

He teases away her apology with kisses on her fingers, and then locks hands with her so she can lean on him for support against each thrust. There's unexpected power in his thin arms, wiry strength that holds her easily so she relaxes into it, concentrating instead on the press of hips, the delight of being filled by him. He bites his lip as they move and when he finally comes it is with a nearly-muffled groan, his hands clenching hers so tightly she knows that she'll feel it later. But now it's perfect, she's locked with him in his embrace, and for the first time since the crash Claire feels safe.

It takes her a while to realize that it is not the ocean filling her ears. It's the sound of Charlie breathing. They've collapsed together, turned slightly so she can lie comfortably, and her head rests on his chest. She stirs and he murmurs something, but she only moves far enough to grab the sweatshirt and drape it over them. They can't stay here forever, pressed in dirt and sweat, but she doesn't want it to end either.

He holds her, knees curled, and tightens his embrace. "You know," he says, his voice rumbling against her. "I feel much better."

Claire shrieks in amusement and punches him lightly, then glances back to make sure she hasn't drawn visitors from the fire. He laughs with her and she shushes him, then they are shushing each other and she wants to laugh harder, so she kisses him instead.

They finally quiet and, propped on one arm, she studies him. Stubbled, dirty, the tight pinch of weeks of pain around his eyes, a slightly goofy grin on his face. "Come back to the fire with me," she says again. She's not sure what she's asking, this time. But whatever he reads in her face, he's okay with it, because he meets her gaze steadily.

"Nowhere else, love." He touches her face, and she realizes that sometime recently he changed the lettering on the tape he wears around his fingers. It's "fate" again. He presses the word against her skin. "Nowhere else, except with you."


End file.
